


Schrödinger’s Gold

by polkadot



Category: Gymnastics RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: Competitiveness, M/M, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8185105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: It's the beginning of the Olympics. Anything can happen.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_la_grecque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_la_grecque/gifts).



> Fabian: "On Horizontal Bar I think together with my colleague Epke Zonderland I am still on top. We are trying to keep our level there and stay on top as long as possible." ([October 2015](http://www.fig-gymnastics.com/site/figNews/view?id=1332))

Fabian is twenty-eight years old, and some days he feels every second of it.

At a certain point, when you’ve been contorting your body in various superhuman ways for over two decades, it starts to take a toll. He feels like an unoiled hinge, creaking and grumpy. And it’s not all physical; he watches some of the youngsters – Shirai, Nagornyy – and feels like a cranky old man, unable to keep up. In _his_ day people didn’t do crazy things like fuckin’ quadruple fuckin’ twists.

 _I was going to retire after London,_ he moans to himself, on particularly bad days. _What happened?_

(He knows what happened. He won a silver medal.)

But those days aren’t every day. Some days – some days make it all worth it.

Today, walking into the practice gym at the Olympic Games? Today is one of those days. Everything’s all potential still; nobody’s dream has crashed and burned. Nory, there in the corner taking grinning selfies with his phone – he believes he can win a medal. Dragulescu, pounding down the runway for his signature vault – he believes he can win a medal. Toba, lifting a hand to wave at him – he believes he can win a medal. Everyone in here, from the apparatus specialists to the all-arounders, still has dreams.

Speaking of dreams.

“Hey,” Epke says, slinging an arm around Fabian’s shoulder, all blond good looks and far too much charm than is good for one man. 

“Hey,” Fabian says, trying to keep a straight face, but failing. Epke’s just too charming. He makes everyone smile, and who is Fabian to resist? 

“I was thinking,” Epke says, walking with him, his arm still around Fabian’s shoulder, “how about we go 1-2 again? Can’t let these kids get too cocky. We have to stay on top.”

Fabian slants a look at him. “Sounds good. I’ll take the gold this time – it’s only fair.”

“Now Fabi,” Epke says, clapping a hand to his heart. “You know I love you. But I will fight you.”

“If there’s fighting I put ten dollars on Epke,” Leyva says, from where he’s sitting down taping his ankles. At a look from Fabian, “What? He’s got about three inches and at least twenty pounds on you.”

Fabian flips him off. “Maybe I fight dirty.”

“Maybe I’ll beat you both,” Danell says, grinning. 

“Fuck you,” Fabian says, as Epke says, “Bring it.”

Danell laughs, unperturbed – he’s far too sunny for this early in the morning, Fabian thinks – and Fabian drops his bag onto one of the unoccupied chairs in his row.

“Lunch later?” Epke calls back over his shoulder.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Fabian says, and begins the process of coaxing his body to remember that he actually _likes_ gymnastics, and that this is not all sheer torture that he should stop doing as soon as possible so he can lie on the couch all day and watch bad television.

~

They do lunch. And later, after dinner, Epke comes over.

“I mean it, you know,” he says, leaning back on Fabian’s pillow, his fingers laced together behind his head. “I really want gold again. You’ll have to fight me for it.”

“How about I fuck you for it?” Fabian says, because they haven’t been able to do this for months, and now Epke’s in his bed looking like heaven itself. Fabian’s not exactly long on patience right now, is the point.

Epke pretends to consider it, then shakes his head. “I think I can get that without risking my gold medal.”

“It’s not yours yet,” Fabian says, sliding a hand over Epke’s warm chest, all toned muscles and all his. “It’s… Schrödinger’s gold, today. It’s my gold, and your gold, and Uchimura’s gold, and Larduet’s gold –”

“If you start listing all the gymnasts in Rio, we’ll be here all night,” Epke says, biting his lip against laughter, and also because he _knows_ it makes Fabian’s dick jump. “Also,” he says, releasing the lip, and Fabian’s eyes follow it helplessly, because he’s so easy with Epke, always has been, “it’s not _everyone’s_ gold. It’s not Schrödinger’s gold for Dragulescu.”

Fabian doesn’t think Dragulescu even trains a high bar routine anymore. If Fabian feels old some days, Dragulescu must feel ancient. “Did I say Dragulescu?” he demands, but doesn’t give Epke a chance to answer because he’s been putting off kissing him for far too long.

“My point is,” Epke says, emerging from the kiss some time later rumpled but undistracted, “that it’s still mine until someone takes it from me.”

“And that’s going to be me,” Fabian says, biting his ear.

“I like your confidence,” Epke says, and flips them with a sudden move, pressing Fabian down into the Olympics bedspread. “How about we christen your room properly?”

Fabian hooks his legs behind Epke’s back and leans up to kiss him, dirty and sure.

He’s been training four extra years for this one chance to get the medal he’s longed for his entire gymnastics career: Olympic Gold. He could be long retired by now. (So could Epke, who’s been somehow combining gymnastics with med school, while also dealing with some gnarly injuries. They’re both old fogies, clinging on for one last try at the prize.)

What Fabian doesn’t say to Epke, as they reacquaint themselves with each other’s bodies, all impatience and laughter and desire, is that no matter who wins gold, he’s happy.

After all, he has Epke in his arms, in his bed, in his heart; if that’s not winning, what is?

But he still wants that gold.

Then Epke presses into him, and Fabian’s mouth opens in a silent o, as he holds on to Epke’s strong shoulders, forgetting everything except the here and now, Epke Epke Epke.

~

Afterwards Epke says, “So, was that good enough for gold?”

Fabian gives him a lazy thumbs up. “Your dick wins gold. You still have to do two great high bar routines, and then we’ll see.”

Epke slaps the bedspread in mock frustration, and Fabian laughs.

Some days he feels every day of his twenty-eight years.

And some days he doesn’t mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Although I imagine anyone reading this will know who ended up winning the gold, just in case: Fabian did, after Epke had a scary fall in the final. (He's okay!)


End file.
